Life of Pie
by Mystic25
Summary: Sam had been turned in a car before; but this was so not the same thing.


"Life of Pie."

Summary: Sam had been turned in a car before; but this was so not the same thing.

Rating: T for language and imagery

Disclaimer: The title is a spin on the book title: Life of Pi by: Yan Martel. I do not own this story, nor do I own Sam or Dean. I own the sandwich that I just ate and my Diet Pepsi. Jealous?

A/N: This was inspired by Phx's story: "Hexa What?", one of the most unique fics I've ever read. I encourage ya'll to check it out.

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"_No one's going anywhere until Sam has opposable thumbs!" _

~Dean Winchester "Supernatural"

Episode: "Changing Channels"

"_There is something in the red of a raspberry pie that looks as good to a __man_

_as the red in a sheep looks to a wolf."_  
~E. W. Howe

**xxxxXxxxx**

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Sam was burning.

No, burning wasn't the right descriptor – he had burned in Hell for 180 years, had flames peel off and singe his skin, it wasn't a feeling that could ever be duplicated, especially now, because Sam had no skin to burn.

He didn't remember exactly when this crazy assed weirdness happened. He thoroughly remembered going to bed the night before with a complete set of skin, stretched out over all 6'4" of him. He remembered waking up at 7:30, leaving Dean a note telling him that he was going for coffee. He remembered walking over to the diner across the street from their hotel. Then it was a bit fuzzy after that –so much in fact that it took a muddled moment to realize that his epidermis _wasn't_ showing anymore, because well – it was just _gone._

It was the bubbling that confirmed it.

Sam was bubbling, not burning.

Bubbling pockets of massively hot air, swirling in a viscous substance that smelled too much like fruit for it to be blood. It all oozed out of a large X carved on what would be the top of his head, if he had a head anymore and not a flaky mass of dough rapidly becoming hard in a convection of circulating heat.

Sam was a pie.

A blackberry crumble pie to be exact.

He barely had time to acknowledge 'how' or 'what the hell?' before he found himself nine inches and circular inside the well of an oven set to 450 degrees.

This particular oven had a window and the two little carved slits in the side of his crust for steam release seemed to serve as some sort of eyes, because he found himself looking at the back end of a wooden dinner counter. And also the back end of a woman, apron strings tied high in a starched white bow above her ass wrapped in a tight little black a-line skirt.

If Sam were to be completely honest it was a nice ass, but the fact that he was watching this from holes that oozed blackberry goo made it all so completely wrong. Since when were pies capable of conscious thought anyway? Wouldn't he have just – I don't know – blacked out, not remembered a thing after his transformation into a lifeless object?

Maybe it was because the blackberries, and the flour, eggs and sugar that made up his crust had once come from living things and had formed him into a pastry of conscious thought and reason?

Or maybe none of that really mattered – because he was. a. _fucking. PIE!_

And he may be literally stewing in his own juices, but he's pretty sure that the woman behind the counter was the witch who turned him from man to fruity confection.

The tail end of the witch's jet black hair was visible around her lower back as she busied herself with something on the counter – it sounded like she was cutting vegetables. And whatever part of the blackberry compote was serving as his brain raced, wondering just who those vegetables had been before they became part of lunch.

The oven was hot, not Hell hot, but still blistering, even with the replacement of a flaky crust in lieu of skin. A barrage of bubbles swam in his blackberry center, oozing out of his top steam hole, scorching down his crumble crust, making his little carved eye slits pour out more of the thickness like steaming tears. If Sam had a mouth hole carved into him, he was sure he'd be cursing more than any pie, real or transformed _ever_ would. And he didn't even care if that was just the blackberries currently serving as his insides talking.

The oven door pulled open and a set of oven mitted hands grabbed his sides and hoisted him out into a butcher block counter. Sam got a 'crust rush' from the movement and now found himself facing a line of red vinyl colored stools, and a glass jar of oatmeal and raisin cookies that towered over him like the Chrysler building.

An ivory colored face, young and beautiful, with bright painted red lips hovered above him. And Sam had brief flashes of that same face offering him a dazzling smile as she watched him sip from his take out coffee cup. Then he remembered feeling dizzy, then waking up in his current predicament.

The black hair fell down like a curtain around that face as the witch's eyes closed and she breathed in Sam's blackberry smell. A finger dipped across the top of his puffed out crust. "Mmm, Sam," Her finger licked away some of his syrup. "I gotta say, it's been a pleasure getting you to rise for me."

Sam now _severely_ wished that he still had a mouth so he could tell this witch, subtract the '_w'_ and add the _'b', _ to fuck off.

The tip of her butcher knife grazed along his crust, and he bubbled in pain filled rage, because lack of nerve endings or not, he _felt_ that.

That perfect smile with gleaming white teeth came out. "But you need to cool off for a bit first delicious boy." She set the knife back down on the counter, wiping her hands on a blue and white checkered dishrag before holding up a long deeply orange carrot by its green top. She set the carrot down on the ceramic cutting board, adding to it a few stalks of celery and two red potatoes. Then she picked up her knife again, sharpening it three times against a whetting stone. She hovered her knife over her collection of vegetables. "I'm thinking- stock broker-" she chopped the carrot in half. "pizza delivery guy-" the celery stalks were cleaved in two "-and cute guy across the street," the potatoes were cut in two with a thick _slice_ of a sound. "-for lunch." she stopped chopping and turned to him with that smile again – so sweet it was decaying. "And Hunter, for dessert."

She went back to her chopping and for the next five minutes, Sam had to listen to her dice up former humans and drop them into boiling water, turning them into soup.

The witch turned the gas eye up all the way under the huge metal pot. Sam watched the blue flames lick the bottom of the pot. He bubbled out his filling, the only form of rage he could express.

"I may look young Sam," A tossing of salt flew into the pot. "But trust me, I'm older than you think," a spray of black pepper landed in the bubbling water next. "And powerful," she picked up a long handled wooden spoon and swirled the soup around inside the pot. "I can transfigure humans into anything I want," Whole pieces of basil were next to fall into the water. "But still, I find something _satisfying_ about turning men into a delicious meal . Back when I was human it was what was expected of me." Cubes of meat went into the water next. Sam didn't even want to guess if that was something she had skinned without transforming it. "Cooking for my husband, tending the hearth, being a dutiful, subservient wife. Nothing was supposed to give more pleasure then pleasing a man." She snorted a laugh over the pot, swirling around the meat that started to cook in the roaring water. "I just got tired of the whole thing you know?" She turned to him with that sickening smile, and closed the lid on the pot, adjusting the heat underneath it. "All that crap about me standing in front of the stove all day while my husband didn't, talk about a power trip. But once I got my juice in, I realized that I didn't want a man who stood in front of the stove – no I wanted one _inside _the stove."

She wiped her hands on the dishrag again. "But of course it would look bad on my part if I just dragged a bunch of dead guys off the street and fed like a cannibal. Not to mention _archaic," _she laughed like the thought was so absurd above turning men into produce and eating them. "So I came up with this little culinary art."

Sam heard the scraping of the stool beside where he was cooling pull back and her face hovered over his crust again. This was defiantly fucked up. How could he even _hear_ anything? Pies didn't have ears, but then they didn't have eyes and – this was just one big ball of completely totally whacked out.

"You should be flattered, Sam," the witch smiled, pulling a mother of pearl inlay clip from her apron pocket and pinned her hair up in a neat pony tail. "I normally transfigure a small army of guys into all my ingredients." She leaned over the counter, the swell of her breasts brushing against his tin pie shell.

Sam felt totally violated.

"But when you came in this morning, over 6 feet of solid walled hunter," her smile lost its teeth and became a seductive purr. "I couldn't help myself; I wanted a special treat. So I made you all my ingredients for this yummy dessert." She picked off one of his crumbles and dropped it into her mouth.

Sam could only bubble in protest like the goddamn looser of an inanimate object that he was. Well that explained how he didn't remember anything until the oven because technically he had been spread apart so thinly he hadn't been able to form a conscious thought until he had become the pie. If he still had hands and hair he'd be ringing the second through the first right now.

Sam had been turned into a car before; but this was so not the same thing. At least then he could _talk_, _move, _ not just sit here cooling with a witch who took the term: 'just desserts' completely literal.

Another thing about that time was that Dean had been there. Sam's phone had vanished the same place his clothes, skin and sanity went, so he had no way how the hell he would get in touch with Dean. But he was betting all his cards on the fact that Dean's protective instincts were lighting up like EMF next to a ghost because it had been longer than the ten minutes he had said he would be gone in his note to Dean before he left.

Of course Dean would be looking for him, but his brother not even knowing where to _start _– it wasn't going to help his whole "not-being-eaten-as-a-pie-by-an-evil-witch" plan.

The scraping of the knife was back along the top of his crust. "I bet you taste as good as you look."

Sam felt his blackberries cringe.

A chiming sounded off somewhere to his left. Sam instantly recognized the sound to be the bell that was poised above the front door. He heard it himself back when he came into this damn palce.

"Excuse me-"

That voice. _That _ voice. Oh God, If Sam could cry real tears instead of goo he would. Because that voice was Dean.

Of course Sam had no idea how in the hell he would let his brother know that he was the blackberry crumble pie sitting on the counter without, you know, a _mouth _– but that was trivial compared to the fact that he had managed to get the first part with Dean being in the same place as him, down.

The witch smoothed down her apron and turned to face Dean with a dazzling smile. "Sorry, we just opened, so if you just take a seat I'll be right with you-"

"Actually I'm looking for someone-"

From his place on the counter Sam watched Dean's eyes flicker over the woman in appreciation.

_She's a goddamn witch you moron, stop flirting and get her to turn me back!_ Sam spent way too long as pie, it was beginning to make him angry, if that even made sense.

The witch's eyebrows raised perfectly, softly. "Oh, and who might that be?"

"My brother," Sam felt better when Dean's appreciation of the woman ended when he was mentioned. "He left a note back at our motel saying he was stopping by here for coffee. That was two hours ago and I haven't seen him since. So I was wondering-"

"No one's come in here honey," the witch said.

"You sure?" Dean asked his tone dropping the flirting edge, worry starting to creep in. "He doesn't exactly lie about something mundane as getting a cup of coffee from a diner-"

"Trust me babe, if your brother's as good looking as you, I'd remember him coming in here." Her teeth came back out in her smile, and she picked up her knife again. "But I tell you what, how about some coffee and a slice of pie so you can get some juice in you to find him?

Sam was horrified when he saw Dean's face waver, like he was thinking about it. He had never hated his brother's love of pie more than that moment.

"Maybe later sweetheart," Dean said.

If pies could faint in relief, Sam would've done so.

"Oh come on," the witch hovered the knife over Sam's crust again. "Blackberry crumble, fresh from the oven," Sam had made up his mind to somehow blow a mess of hot pie filling in her face before he let her come near him with that knife; but then she plunged the knife into his crust without waiting for Dean's response.

Sam felt the knife blade pierce through him. As a pie, he had no bones or muscles so it didn't hurt like a stab wound would've. But when the metal of the knife's blade kissed his crust and plunged itself into his fruity innards, Sam felt something rip agonizingly anyway. His filling was left a bubbling heaving mess, as he felt the part of him that had been sliced slide onto a plate and be dropped in front of Dean.

He watched the witch place an empty ceramic mug in front of Dean and fill it up with black coffee from the pot on the warmer.

"This isn't necessary," Dean tried to wave her off, but she set the coffee cup next to his right hand.

"On the house," she rested her arms on either side of Dean. "Can't have a hero wasting away." She reached under the counter and came back up with a can of whipped cream.

"What's your name?" She shook the can of Redi Whip, her pony tail bobbing with her movement.

"Dean," Dean returned.

"Dean huh?" The witch cocked her eyebrow. "I'm Sara."

"Sara huh?" Dean returned her sentiment, watching her movements of her arm shaking the whipped cream can.

Sara smiled brighter. "Pretty much." She swirled a circle of whipped cream over the piece of pie she cut away from Sam. He felt the cold sensation of the canned cream on his crust, and stared at the slice of him as horribly as if someone had spread whipped cream on his severed arm and was serving it up to his brother.

"So your brother-"

Sam watched Dean's eyes flicker up to the witch at the mention of him.

"You seem pretty concerned about him. Does he get in trouble a lot or something?"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "Guess you might say it's kind of like his moniker. Sammy can't seem to keep his nose clean from blood."

"Well then he's lucky to have you," Sara says, one of her arms reaches out and rests on Dean's wrist.

Sam oozes out his filling in disgust at the bitch touching his brother. Her thumb is on the pulse point of Dean's wrist and her smile is heavy like a bough ripe with fruit, and it makes his own fruit burble in anger.

With her free hand she hands him a fork.

Sam can feel the flakes on his damaged crust start to rise. _Oh hell no._

"Eat up, I'm not telling you again." Sara dangles the fork in front of him like it's its own treat. "You won't be any good to your little brother if you aren't fueled up."

Dean takes the fork from her slowly. "Twist my arm." He flashes her a smile _the_ smile, the one that makes women puddle the way Sam did with his eyes.

Eyes which were currently Sam's carved ventilation slits bubbling out filling like lava, trying to get Dean's attention, anything to keep that fork from moving to the bit of him that is sitting on a plate in front of his older brother.

Dean eyes Sara for a long moment and Sam feels a bit of hope surge in him that maybe Dean suspects something, maybe he won't eat pie from a beautiful woman in a strange diner -

Dean looked down at Sam's crumbled crust overlaid with whipped cream, utensil poised. He sunk the side of the fork into the bottom, slicing of a triangle.

Sam shuddered at the feeling of being broken away again, felt each of his crumbs hit the plate.

_Dean – No, man, damnit don't, no, please!-_

Dean pulled the bite of pie in his mouth and chewed.

And Sam screamed without any sound except for a burbling sound of pie filling inside the tin tray. Dean had, he had – _ahh-god help, get him out get him OUT!_

Sara observed him with a smile like it was Christmas. "Good huh?" She laid a hand on his shoulder again.

Dean nodded chewing again, but slowing down, watching her bright red smile of full lips. Her hand moved from his shoulder to his hair, and she started leaning in closer, cleavage low and exposed over her low cut pink shirt.

Dean leaned into her with a whisper of a smile-

Then opened his mouth and spit a partially chewed blackberry in her face.

Sam felt himself bounce off Sara, feeling the thudding splat the blackberry took on the countertop. He didn't want to think about what part of him that was.

Sara reeled back and glared at Dean, wiping at the stain of pie filling on her face. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

"How about you drop the act – _witch!"_ Dean reached over and grabbed the arm off his shoulder. He wrenched it back slamming her head into the counter.

Sam heard it hit with a sickening '_crack'_ but it sounded like it had been in a tunnel. Whatever consciousness he had held onto was beginning to wane being sliced and spread apart into so many pieces and crumbs.

She remained like that for a long moment, face pressed into the counter, stunned. "Please, I don't know what you're talking about!" Her face popped back up like a Jack-in-the-Box. One hand was now clutching at a bleeding forehead. "_Please!"_ Her face a myriad of pain, eyes dripping with tears.

–that Dean wasn't buying.

Her face fell when Dean didn't even twitch in sympathy. "Fine." She waved an arm that sent the coffee pots flying at his head.

Dean ducked from them, rolling onto the floor, and they shattered against the opposite wall, spraying a stain of hot coffee against the plaster.

She growled in frustration and waved her arm at him again, a strong sweeping enchantment that would've landed him against the opposite wall with no air and broken bones normally, but her eyes widened in surprise when she found him still standing there, un hurt.

She started to lunge towards him, but then was hit with an invisible wall, that slammed her back against the stove.

She shook off her daze and tried again, with the same effect. Her eyes drifted downwards and then she noticed something spread all around front of the counter on the floor making a circle around her.

"Apples and sage?" Sara snorted at the sight of red fruit and dried leaves, recognizing the ingredients from her own kitchen. "That's a little Wicca White Magic don't you think?"

"Ain't no school like the old school bitch," Dean growled back. He knew the nature spell wouldn't hold her back for long. She wasn't a crystal hippie witch, she was the real deal. But it would still buy him some time.

Sara looked at him impressed, and huffed out a sigh, wiping a bit of smudged lipstick off the side of her face. "Guess you're not as dumb as you look. So what tipped you off if I might ask? I thought I was doing good with the whole 'lonely vixen waitress in the small town diner' thing."

"Where's. Sam?" Dean growled, raising his pearl handled Colt at her.

"My question first," she said wiping off the blood trickling down her forehead with her dishrag.

"I never mentioned Sam was my little brother," Dean hisses stepping right up to the boundary of apples and sage he had laid down. "You wanna make a lie convincing, don't ad lib the details. Now where is he?"

"Who says I have him?" Sara snapped with a smirk on her face.

"My gun says," Dean said in a voice as cold as the metal he was holding.

She smirked. "That can't hurt me."

"Maybe not – " Dean said. "But _I_ can. So you tell me where Sam is or I stuff you full of apples and sage and roast your ass in your own oven."

Sam's consciousness was now as small as the crumbs that were spread on the counter, his mind as gooey as the pie filling. He only hoped that Dean found a way to fix this soon, or there'd be nothing left of him to fix. And he was _pretty _sure he didn't want to snuff it as a pie.

"Hot shot huh?" Sara cocked her head to Dean's rage hissing out of him like a boiling tea kettle. "But don't worry Top Gun. Sam's not far. He's close," her smile was back, mocking and sarcastic. "_Very_ close."

Her eyes flicked down to the slice of pie sitting on the counter.

Dean's eyes hardened, not knowing what kind of game she was playing. Because when he dropped his eyes down all he saw was the slice of pie she had tried to force feed him. Dean had only gone along with it, to try and throw her off guard. There could have been poison in that pie. But when he had come into the dinner initially, he had seen her eating some of the berry filling off her fingers – and witches tended to be a self preservation bunch, so he knew the pastry was clean.

So why was this bitch all hung up over one goddamn pie? Gotta be some kind of spell she worked into-

_No. No Way._

Dean's eyed the pie sitting by his elbow, then the slice on the plate, the blackberry he had spit at her left a trail along the counter almost like sticky blood. _She wouldn't-_

"What can I say," Sara was smiling, leaning over to Dean as close as the boundary protection spell would allow her. "Sam's a little slice."

Dean's stomach lurched, he could still feel a bit of blackberry caught in between his teeth. Vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it and glowered at her. "You. sick. bitch!-"

"I'm not the one who just licked whipped cream off my own brother and ate him."

Dean jumped over the counter, his boot kicking one of the apples out of alignment, sending it rolling across the tile but it still managed to stay within the circle, so the boundary wasn't broken.

"Careful," Sara watched one of the apples hit the bottom of the counter. "Sam isn't my only '_special_ ingredient'.

Dean eyed the apple and his stomach gave a jolt of revulsion at the thought of who that had been before the Macintosh sticker. But he pushed it away, not because he didn't care. Because he knew witches. And this one wasn't going to let all her victims go – and it was never an option of who he would save. The need of the one outweighed the need of the many – if that one was Sam.

"Change him back!" The gun was aimed at her heart. She was right, bullets wouldn't kill her, but they could mess her up some. But the only thing that kept him from pulling the trigger was the reversal spell she would say that would turn his brother back into a person. If he shot the bitch now she may go amnesiac over her spell book lessons.

Why?" She taunted, leaning over to look at the mangled piece of pie. "He didn't taste good?"

Dean swallowed down more acidic like vomit. "Change him back you fucking sadistic!-"

"Language!" Sara scolded mockingly. She looked down at the sage and apples at her feet. She was 950 years old, she had been persecuted in the Salem Witch Trials, and lived (Stupid humans thinking they could persecute a real live witch and not expect retribution) But she knew when she was stalemated, even by a man 1/29th of her age. "Let me out, and I'll change him back."

"Change him back and I won't kill you ," Dean gave her Option Two, because he never planned to let her walk out of here. Not after what she did. "At least not at first."

"I can't inside the circle handsome," Sara said like she was trying to placate an over emotional toddler, spreading her arms wide inside her prison. "So if you want your dear sweet Sammy back with the pretty green eyes and opposable thumbs, clear out the charms."

Dean looked like he was going to rip her head off bare handed. But he dropped his eyes down and kicked away one of the apples and some of the sage creating a gap in the circle.

Sara looked at the gap too small to even place her size 6 Bandalino in. "Feeling generous are we Dean?" At his heaving angered look she added: "I'm _kidding_. "She shook her head at him. "You are so easy to read, it's sad." She clapped her hands once. "One beloved little brother coming up." She brought her hands together again, as if in prayer, then pointed her right index finger at Sam the pie. "_Din grafic pentru viata umana!"_

It wasn't like in the movies, where the pie just vanished and was replaced by a whole intact Sam, looking annoyed but alive, and throwing out a quip about tasting too fruity. The pie _did_ vanish; but it exploded into pieces like a bomb, splattering the walls with blackberry goo. And Sam now lay on the counter where the pie had been, completely naked, save for torn pieces of a tin pie plate covering certain places. He was covered, from hair tips to toe tips, in blackberry slime like afterbirth, and was gasping like a floundering fish on land.

"Sam!" Dean grabbed a fistful of sticky Sam arm and pulled his brother too him. His fingers stuck to Sam's skin like fly paper, and when Dean turned Sam's head over to see his kid brother's eyes they were so dilated they were almost black.

"Bout-" Sam gasped weakly. "Damn, time –man." He groaned and closed his eyes. "T'rd of being p'stry."

Dean slid a hand through Sam's sticky gooey hair briefly before shedding his jacket and draping it over Sam's naked form.

"See? He's fine."

Sara's words raised Dean's head up to her, his hand resting protectively on the back of Sam's neck.

"Well mostly," Sara finished. "But since when is anything in life an absolute?"

Dean flicked out silver plated lighter, striking it, making a hot red flame ignite. "No arguments here." His move to throw it was thwarted by sticky fingers gripping his elbow. He turned to see his brother pulling himself up using his arm as leverage.

Before he could even utter a: '_Sammy_!' Sam was glaring at the witch as best he could with blackberries sticking his eyelashes.

"Sorry it didn't work out kid," Sara said with that evil little smile of hers. "I enjoyed mixing it up with you."

_What is it with this witch and bad pie puns?_ "Wish I could say the same." Sam returned in a rasp. He looked her directly in the eye for the first time all day. "_Din viaţă la moarte!"_

He watched her eyes widened at the incantation he recited, then she gave an unearthly scream and burst into an inferno of flames.

She burned down into ashes in less than a minute, and Dean and Sam stood transfixed, watching it happen. Actually, Dean was standing; Sam was still huddled on the countertop, gripping Deans arm with sticky fingers, holding a hand to close Dean's jacket over him to give him some semblance of modesty.

"Dude," Dean said after the last of Sara's ashes fell to the floor in a pile. "That takes the-" he turned to Sam, seeing a blackberry slide out of his hair and plop onto the counter top. "Sorry."

"Shut up," Sam gasped out before he listed to the side and lost consciousness.

**xxxxXxxxx**

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Sam came back to himself slowly, and to the feeling of something hard scrubbing at his arm. He blinked the world back into focus and found himself lying on his bed back at the motel. The sheets had been stripped off of it, and he was lying on something that felt like the PVC shower curtain that had been hanging in the bathroom up until then.

Further blinking produced Dean sitting on the side of the bed, holding up his right arm and attacking the dark sticky stains there with the horsehair brush normally reserved to polish the guns.

Sam groaned, and it made the brush stop for a moment.

"Hey man, you back with me?" Dean's worried eyes hovered above him.

"Yeah," Sam groaned again. His head felt like it had been replaced with a bowling ball and his skin felt very raw and sensitive like he had the worst type of sunburn.

Which might have something to do with the fact that he had been a mass of sticky hot bubbling pie not long ago –

Or the fact that Dean was scrubbing him with a brush like he was bound for the races. "Ga'-D'n," Sam's thoughts were muzzy. "Wh't r you doing?"

"Getting out these stubborn grass stains," Dean deadpanned, "Have you checked yourself out lately bro? You look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy vomited on you." Dean picked up Sam's arm and resumed scrubbing a particularly dark purple stain on the underside of his arm. "Only you Sam would piss off a witch and be turned into a pastry." He scrubbed as he talked. "Tell you man, our lives are just like one long Monty Python movie."

The scrubbing was beginning to make Sam's skin burn, he latched his hand up to Dean's arm, stilling his movements. "D'n stop! I'm good man, I'm going to go take an _actual_ shower." he groaned again as he tried to sit up, but only made it about midway before he felt so dizzy he couldn't continue.

Dean pushed him back down."No man you were witch food not three hours ago Sam, you are _not_ good." Dean had cleaned most of the sticky crap off of Sam while he had been out, making sure the goop was out of his airways so his brother could breeze. It was not a pleasant experience, especially for the stuff stuck in the crevices. He could go several lifetimes without having to do _that _ again.

Dean retrieved a pitcher of water off the nightstand he had filled up with water from the bathroom. "Close your eyes." He poured it over Sam's hair and body to rinse off the soap and sticky shit.

Sam jumped and shivered at the water's contact. "Dude-" He had been pie, he had been naked in a public dinner, all in less than 8 hours. He didn't want to add being sponged bathed by his brother on top of it.

"Take it easy, you're fine." Dean said in that calming voice he always used when Sam was scared after nightmares, or you know – after whining because Dean was rinsing pie remnants from his hair after he had just been turned back from a pie into a human by one twisted witch.

"Oh yeah, I always smell like blackberry when I'm fine," Sam mumbled, feeling Dean work out bits of blackberry skin from his hair. _God this was so fucking embarrassing. _

"That's the spirit," Dean returned. He dried Sam off with the towel he had slung over his shoulder, which came away stained in purple. And Sam didn't protest because he felt like shit, like _exhausted_ shit. Being a pie was tiring work apparently.

Sam felt himself being jostled roughly, and soon the plastic – yep, he was right, shower curtain - was slid out from under him and a blanket thrown over his naked frame, making him sigh at no longer being bare and exposed.

"Thanks," Sam's voice was rough as he blinked up at Dean. "Am I good now Florence Nightingale?"

"Shut up," This time it was Dean's turn to say it. He sat down on the edge of the mattress patted Sam's chest through the blanket. "So what was that spiel you spouted off to that bitch that made her burn faster than my lighter would've?"

"Romanian," Sam said, letting his eyes flutter close for a moment "She gave me the idea man. She used the language first in her reversal spell." His eyes were open again, and on Dean. "Figured that she was a Romanian Witch."

"I'm not even gonna ask where you learned to speak Romanian," Dean said. "What'd she say?"

"From pie to life," Sam responded, watching his brother's eyebrows raise up in a '_what?' _look.

"_From Pie to Life? _Dude that sounded cooler in Romanian," Dean said with a shake of his head that matched his look. "And what did you say?"

"From life to death," Sam returned.

"Also sounded cooler in Romanian."

"The apples and sage were a nice touch," Sam added. "Very classic."

"Hey I'm not entirely useless without a gun Sam."

There was an awkward pause as Dean fiddled with the blanket covering Sam, because they had just used up all the light banter they were going to get with this."Sam-"

"Dean-" Sam returned.

"Sorry about eating you-"

"It wasn't your fault."

Dean and Sam's words tripped over each other. Sam laughed for a minute, because he really didn't know what else to do, and it seemed appropriate given all the weirdo shit they had just experienced "It wasn't your fault man. It's not like you _enjoyed_ eating me-"

"Okay can we drop this entire disgusting conversation?" Dean snapped with a shudder. "C'mon, _mental images _ man!"

"Sorry," Sam said sheepishly, but also as equally disgusted as his brother.

"Yeah well you should be!" Dean all but shouted His eyes flashed up to the bandage that was taped to the side of Sam's right ear, where a torn chunk of flesh had come away, almost in a perfect circle the size of a bitten off blackberry. He wasn't even going to question how, with all the slicing and dicing, Sam had only wound up with a small missing chunk of his ear. He was just going to call it a win. But it still made him nauseous at remembering how he _got_ that hole in the first place.

"What was it like?" Dean asked.

"As a pie?" Sam said, his face contorting sickeningly at the memories. "Wet, uncomfortable, especially when you were- never mind - It was just jacked up. I mean who the hell turns people into pastries?"

"Tell you what it'll be a long time before I can even _look_ at pie the same way again." Dean said with a shudder.

"Yeah me too," Sam agreed. He blew out a breath, then yawned. "What about the others?" He yawned again, but fought off the sleep that wanted to pull at him, because he needed to know.

Dean's silence was his answer.

Sam's eyes closed in frustration. All those ingredients in that diner, all that food. Who knows _how_ many men died because Sam had taken out the witch before she could reverse all her magic.

"Hey," Dean said, watching Sam focus on him again. "Don't do that man, it's not your fault okay? Like you said it's jacked up. You did good Sammy."

"I sat there and let her cook me Dean; and all those other guys!" Sam argued. "How was that good? Who knows how many of those foodstuffs were actual people!"

"Foodstuffs?" Dean repeated in amusement. "Sammy I think you've been a pie too long man-"

"Dean!" Sam huffed out in anger.

"Dude calm down," Dean said holding up a hand, which found its home in the back of his neck a moment later, his nervous habit. "Look man I feel bad about those poor bastards too, but you were messed up when she brought you back, you weren't thinking clearly alright?" Dean's hand moved to Sam's arm. "You stayed alive," Dean added. "That's_ good_ Sam. It's okay to think about yourself once in a while."

Sam blew out a sigh, like maybe he would believe it if it weren't for all the things that kept him from it. "I'm tired Dean."

Dean met Sam's eyes, and let his hand drop back to Sam's shoulder. "Then get some sleep Sammy."

Sam let his eyes fall closed and let sleep tug him under.

And Dean sat and watched for a long while before going to the mini fridge that sat against the wall and dumping all the pie he had there into the trash. _Damn witches._

**xxxxXxxx**

* * *

**End.**

And thus concludes my tale of Sam becoming something well – _other_ than Sam.

Thank you and goodnight, oh and please review.

~Mystic


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